The day Dominic’s precious Ivy returned from studying abroad, he made his choice.
And it wasn’t me.
I stared into his dark eyes, my voice trembling with fury.
“Dominic, have you forgotten? My father became a vegetable saving your life.”
“And now you’re letting them pull his oxygen tube—for her? For Ivy, who has lied, cheated, and killed?”
I was shaking, my lips quivering. Even with the truth in front of me, I still couldn’t believe it. That he would go this far. That he would do this—for her.
Dominic closed his eyes and exhaled, slow and heavy.
“Elena, I’ve punished her. She knows what she did was wrong.”
“We’re all family. There’s no need to drag this through court and make it ugly.”
I knew exactly what his so-called punishment meant.
A few days locked up. Her card was suspended for a week. The same meaningless gestures I’d seen a dozen times in the past eight years.
After Ivy returned, anytime Dominic and I spent more than a few quiet minutes together, her phone calls would come.
Tears. Suicide threats. Scandals that needed cleaning up.
He always told me to ignore her. And then he’d disappear to be by her side.
Every time, he chose her. Every time, I was left behind.
And when I confronted him, he’d smooth it over with a few gentle lies:
“Elena, she’s been an orphan since she was a child. I raised her—she’s my responsibility.”
“She's a little spoiled, sure, but not a bad person. We should be more tolerant. We’re older.”
I believed him—until she killed my mother.
She ran her down in the street, just to stop us from getting married.
Even then, I thought Dominic would finally draw a line.
But he didn’t.
All his so-called principles, all his promises—they were never for me. His heart had always belonged to her.
I stared at the video again, my mother’s final moments replaying in brutal clarity. And the tears I had held back for weeks finally spilled over.
“Dominic,” I whispered, voice hollow. “Fine.”
“I’ll withdraw the lawsuit.”
Surprise flickered in his eyes. A slow, triumphant smile crept across his lips.
“Elena, I knew you were the most sensible one.”
“Let’s have our wedding again in seven days, okay? A proper one this time.”
I didn’t nod. Didn’t shake my head.
I just picked up the pen and signed the withdrawal. Every stroke sliced through me like a blade.
That night, I saw her post on Instagram story: Ivy, smiling at a lavish party, toasting her freedom.
Surrounded by luxury gifts, the most eye-catching was a rare vintage watch—worth three million—auctioned by Dominic himself at his last charity gala.
[Thank you to my dearest uncle, for giving me countless lives.]
Dominic’s profile was among the likes.
Eight years. He never once liked my posts. But hers? He never missed a single one.
When I asked, he always said,
“She’s a little girl. If I don’t like her posts, she throws a tantrum.”
I never fought with him over her. I chose to believe his explanations.
But now, she had taken my mother’s life—and he was celebrating her freedom.
I stood by the window, hand resting on my belly.
This child… was once the gift I wanted to give him.
Now, I couldn’t.
Just like that half-finished wedding—we would never see the second half.
I picked up the phone and called the hospital.
“Hello. I’d like to schedule an abortion.”
My voice was calm. Quiet.
I looked down at my flat stomach. Then I looked away.
Later, I held a funeral for my mother. The funeral parlor was filled with her favorite gardenias.
That day, Dominic arrived.
And he brought Ivy—still holding her hand.
